Prologue: Childhood
by Carissa the Sita
Summary: A deeper look at Sherlock and Mycroft's childhood, based off Mycroft's bare-bones story in The Final Problem (Also, Spoilers-duh!) Rated T for some drug references, violence.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: I felt like I wanted to flesh out Mycroft's rather cold-facts based telling of the tragedy of Victor Trevor, the Musgrave Ritual, and how Sherlock came to forget his friend and his sister.

* * *

Victor Trevor was an unusual child.

Perhaps that is why he got on so well with Sherlock, who was equally unusual… though in very different ways.

Victor was in his room, that fateful morning, when the doorbell rang.

"Victor! It's for you, darling!" His mother called.

"Be right down, Mummy!" Victor replied, shoving the cork-board with its collection of pinned beetles under the bed before pounding down the stairs.

"Sherlock wants to play with you." Euros said, in a sing-song voice. "He always wants to play with _you_." She added quietly as they walked out of the house. "_Even though _I'm _his sister._" She hissed.

"Well, maybe he doesn't think you'd like to play pirate." Victor suggested gamely.

"Maybe I would, maybe I won't, but he'll never know unless he asks." She sang again, then hissed in an eerie tone, "_I will make him ask_."

"Okay, then." Victor said, shrugging. Euros was strange sometimes, but it didn't really bother him.

Perhaps it would have been better if it did.

"Mummy! Mummy, she _knows_ where he is! Make her tell us, please! What if Victor is hurt?" Sherlock begged, as his sister sang her little tune.

"_I that am lost, oh, who will find me. Deep down below the old beech tree. _The song is the answer." She said, her haunting gaze lingering on Sherlock.

Cold. The water crept higher, reaching his waist now. He had screamed for hours, yet no one heard his voice. _What will it feel like? What happens when I'm dead? Will anyone ever find me? Will Mummy cry?_

If only someone had heard his terrified sobbing.

Mycroft frowned at his sister. "I know you know where Victor is. Sherlock's going mad. Why can't I make you tell us?"

"I told you." She said, her gaze sharply on him. "_The song is the answer._"

"Your little ritual doesn't make any bloody sense!" Mycroft spat back, louder than he'd meant to.

"Mycroft! Language!" His mother berated.

Mycroft wished he could make everyone do what he wanted.

Things would be so much easier.

The dark, cold water splashed over his head. Desperately, he tried to swim up for air, but the cold had stiffened his tiny limbs, and the murk enveloped him. His lungs burned, then a fiercer burn when the water entered. The cold shock of it was the last thing he felt before his body shut down.

Mycroft woke, feeling irritable. It was the middle of the night, and what on earth had awakened him?

Then he heard it: Sherlock's broken sobbing from his bedroom. Mycroft sat up, pondering to himself what to do. After some deliberation, he got up. The sobs quieted quickly as Mycroft stepped on the loose board in the hallway, causing it to creak loudly.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft pushed his brother's door open slightly.

"Go away." Sherlock mumbled.

"Sherlock…"

"Redbeard isn't coming back, is he?"

"Who?"

"Redbeard. My dog. My only friend." Sherlock said.

"Your… dog?"

"Don't pretend you don't know who I'm talking about!" Sherlock said, flying up from beneath the covers, small fists clenched so his knuckles were white. His face was equally white, though his eyes red and wet from crying. "Redbeard was the best friend I ever had, but now he's gone!"

Vaguely then, did Mycroft remember the game Victor and his brother used to play. _Redbeard._ Yes, Victor would always play the pirate Redbeard; as he and Sherlock ran around fighting off the Navy and burying treasure (once, to Mycroft's great displeasure, they had hid a box of shiny rocks in his own room).

"Yes… _Redbeard_… And… I am so very sorry, Sherlock." Mycroft said, softly.

Sherlock slumped back down on his bed. "He was a good dog, wasn't he, Mycroft?"

"Er… yes, I suppose." Mycroft shifted uncomfortably; although he'd already deduced that his brother's mind had replaced his memories due to the trauma, seeing his usually half-way bright brother completely oblivious of a glaring truth of the recent past… his own past… shook Mycroft to the core. "Well… try to get some sleep, brother?"

"Can I borrow some alum?" Sherlock asked. "My chemistry set ran out."

"Alum has nothing to do with sleeping, and everything to do with not sleeping, and anyway; brother mine, you've already used up the alum that came in _my_ chemistry set as well. Besides, you'll burn the house down one of these days."

Afterwards, Mycroft always wondered in the back of his head if, maybe, somehow, _she_ had heard him say that to Sherlock. Had taken the idea from him. It was a thought that sometimes bothered him when he woke in the night, although it was truly the least of his troubles.

* * *

AN: Hope you enjoyed this piece!


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I halfway wish I'd started earlier-so we could have seen more of Sherlock and Victor's relationship. Maybe I'll do a prequel to this prequel sometime.  
_

The Holmes family moved to a smaller residence after the fire at Musgrave, in a sleepy little town close to London called Kensington. Most Sunday afternoons, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes would go and visit their daughter at the asylum. It fell to Mycroft to watch his younger brother, which he detested… and this was not entirely unfounded. Sherlock often made himself quite difficult, once even flooding the guest bathroom through an attempt to flush Mycroft's collection of the political sections from old newspapers.

However, one Sunday afternoon as their parents prepared to leave, Sherlock asked, "Where are you going?"

"To visit Eurus, Sherlock; you know that." His father replied, voice a bit heavy with emotion.

Sherlock was silent until after they left, when he whispered to his brother, "Who's Eurus?"

Something cold, almost akin to fear, coiled in Mycroft's stomach. "You truly don't remember?" He hissed back.

"No." Sherlock said, the frown of confusion on his face too genuine to leave any doubt.

_He forgot her too._ The thought was more frightening than Mycroft would have liked to admit, and he quickly distanced himself emotionally. "Eurus…" Mycroft said, measuredly. "Is the Goddess of the East Wind. Mummy and Daddy are going to see if she will send her wind to blow you away forever."

Sherlock frowned deeper at that. "That's not true." He pouted.

"And how would you know that, since you don't even remember? Perhaps the East Wind already blew some of your brains away."

"Stop it, Mycroft." Sherlock said, clenching his fists. "I'm not stupid."

"Yes you are, and Mummy and Daddy are very disappointed in you."

"No… no they're not." Sherlock protested, but he sounded less sure. They _had_ sounded rather cross when they were leaving… and he _did_ sometimes blow things up in the middle of the night… and one time it had been Mummy's Christmas bracelet… "There isn't any East wind… and you're just a big bully." Sherlock threw his bowl of oatmeal across the table at Mycroft, hitting him square in the chest, before bolting away to his room as Mycroft called irritably after him to come and clean up this mess.

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock dumped the melted sugar from his makeshift Bunsen burner (grater from the kitchen, one of Mummy's tealights) on the door handle before Mycroft could finish picking the lock. It dripped stickily into the crack of the joint before hardening.

"Now you can't bother me anymore!" Sherlock announced to his brother. _Neither can any East Wind…_ he added to himself. "I've sealed the handle closed with hard caramel."

"Sherlock, Mummy will kill you."

"First she'll kill you for making me do it." Sherlock said, kicking his feet against the edge of his bed.

Mycroft was silent, pondering the likelihood of that. If his parents knew he'd been taunting Sherlock with a tale of his sister…

"Tell you what, Sherlock, if you come out and don't cause any more trouble today, I'll let you have the chemicals from my chemistry set." Mycroft bargained.

"I don't need them." Sherlock said. "I just got a new kit for my birthday, remember."

"Of _course_ I remember, but wouldn't you like to have more for when you run out?"

"I'm _bored_, Mycroft. Bored. B-O-R-E-D, BORED."

_Wonderful_, Mycroft thought, sarcastically. "Hrmph. How about my forensics kit? If you don't say anything to Mummy and Daddy about Eurus and the East Wind, and you come out and don't cause any trouble, you can have my forensics kit."

"_Including _the microscope?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft sighed. "Yes, including the microscope."

Sherlock had dissolved the caramel a few moments later, and Mycroft handed over the desired kit. Sherlock, to his credit, was a charming angel the rest of the day; and kept his mouth shut, too.


	3. Chapter 3

"MYCROFT!" Sherlock yelled, banging forcefully on Mycroft's door.

"Blast it all, Sherlock, what's the issue?" Mycroft finally caved, opening his front door.

"You're busted."

"Busted how?" Mycroft asked haughtily.

"You've been snooping in my business." Sherlock pointed an accusing finger at his brother's nose.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, pushing Sherlock's finger aside with one of his own. "How so?"

"You've been watching me."

"What makes you say that?"

"I never told you I joined the University's debate club. And yet you congratulated me on it."

"Oh." Mycroft winced inwardly, but kept an outward appearance of disdain.

"You're slipping, brother." Sherlock sounded exultant.

"I'm… not. I'm merely… _busier_ than I used to be. Politics is more time-consuming than you would think. No. You're just finally beginning to use some of your brain."

"So what was it, hmm? Informer? Security cameras? Pressure- and direction-sensitive inserts in my shoes?"

"Mummy told me."

"_Blast_." Sherlock said, losing some of his ground.

"Precisely, brother."

"Well, why were you asking about me?"

"Sherlock." Mycroft's less-than-pleased smirk told the young man more than his words could have.

"Of course. Mother volunteered the information, quite willingly." Sherlock said, frowning a bit.

"Along with several of your recent test scores, and the fact that you CLEPped out of most of your chemistry classes. Congratulations."

Sherlock grimaced slightly. "The only ones I enjoy. I'm going to finish off the advanced forensics course, Mycroft, and then I'm quitting."

"To become a 'consulting detective'?" Mycroft asked mockingly.

"Says the consulting politician." Sherlock shot back, then turned to leave. "Adieu, brother."

"Watch out, Sherlock. There's an East Wind tonight." Mycroft called after him in retaliation. Sherlock halted, stiffening slightly.

"If I'm lucky, it'll carry me away from _you_." Sherlock said, his back still to Mycroft, before he headed off into the crisp afternoon.

"_Do_ be careful, brother mine." Mycroft murmured, as he watched Sherlock walk away. _You'll never know how much you truly do mean to me._


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Drugs are bad. Don't do drugs, please. Sherlock Holmes is cool, yes. Drugs make him WEAK. If you want to be weak and have your brains addled, by all means, do drugs. Thank you.  
_

"Sherlock, my mate!" The other student slurred his words a bit, grabbing at Sherlock's sleeve as Sherlock passed him to go to his own dorm room. "Don'tcha-don'tcha wanna come in and have-and have s-some too?"

"Some of what?" Sherlock asked, only half paying attention to the kid, and wishing only that he would move so he could leave.

"This-thisiss the good sstuff. The-we got the goo… the good sstuff. There'ss ssomore iff you want ssommme."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Boring. Hope you have a headache in class tomorrow."

"Boring-no, no… not very. Feel like… feel like my… mind is… running." The student said, patting Sherlock's arm a bit too familiarly for Sherlock's comfort.

"Running… I see."

"Yess… Well, iff- iff you're not having any, can you… not tell anyone? Like a mate, you know?"

"I have no time for such shenanigans." Sherlock said stiffly, jerking his arm away and sweeping past.

Hours later, however, Sherlock found himself still thinking about his words. Perhaps… perhaps… no, Mycroft would kill him.

Several weeks later, however, Sherlock made one of the greatest mistakes of his life. He had been bored. _Very_ bored. Dangerously, it turned out. It wasn't hard to find a dealer. A quick prick; then quite soon after, there was a delightful feeling of elation, a floating sensation… it was as if the world were miles away. Sherlock felt terrible coming down from his first high, however, and told himself afterwards that it hadn't really been worth it.

A week later, after hours spent wondering whether, perhaps, it really had been worth it. _Anyway_, he told himself, _this is just another experiment. It is foolish to theorize when you have no data._ It was fairly simple to acquire more of the stuff. Another needle, another high… then coming crashing down as he felt… ashamed.

_Mycroft's right. I'm a bloody idiot, that's what I am, _Sherlock thought, as he sat in his bed with his knees to his chest. _This thing will suck me in like a whirlpool. I shan't do it again._ And he thought he wouldn't.

**Call me.**

Sherlock stared at the text on his screen. _Can't. Won't. Shouldn't._ Sherlock reached for his device, shaking fingers trying to activate it.

"Hello, Mycroft?"

"Where bloody are you?"

"I'm…" Sherlock stopped, squinted at his surroundings, which were bending and swirling frustratingly.

"Sherlock?"

"I… I don't know."

"What have you done?"

"I…" Sherlock trailed off.

"Sherlock?"

"I don't… I don't… feel so good."

"Sherlock!?" Mycroft's shout was cut off as the phone slipped from Sherlock's fingers, crashing and shattering on the floor.

"Sherlock, blast you, talk to me!" Mycroft demanded, shaking his brother's shoulder. "What did you take?"

"Mycroft?"

"WHAT DID YOU TAKE!?"

"I don't… remember…" Sherlock slurred his words slightly.

"Sherlock, you have to remember! You could very well die otherwise!"

"You can't… you can't… threaten me… there isn't any East Wind…" His voice faded.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, darn you, listen to me!" Mycroft said, his heart beating harder than he would have ever admitted. "You listen, Sherlock! Stay with me, you understand me? Sherlock? SHERLOCK!"  
_

Author's note: Drugs are bad. Don't do drugs, please. Sherlock Holmes is cool, yes. Drugs make him WEAK. If you want to be weak and have your brains addled, by all means, do drugs. Thank you.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note: Short chapter, I know. Sorry. Just wanted to get this up quickly following that last one (even though Sherlock was going to be okay, obviously!) _

"Why?" Mycroft asked, wearily.

"I don't know. I didn't… I didn't… didn't mean to." Sherlock said.

"You nearly died." Mycroft's anger was barely contained.

"I wasn't… I wasn't trying." Sherlock said. "I didn't mean… for this to happen. It just… it got out of control so quickly."

"How long?" Mycroft asked, biting back a snide remark.

"Three months."

"Three months? Three _bloody_ months, and you couldn't have told me so I could at least know you might need help?"

"I don't _need_ your help, Mycroft! Or your concern, thank you very much!" Sherlock shouted, growing defensive.

"I don't care if you think so or not, Sherlock; because you've always been a blundering idiot. This just proves it. You're just like everyone else."

Mycroft's words stung, and as always, Sherlock secretly took them to heart.


End file.
